


Tea

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 04:44:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8130893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Poor Bilbo’s down when Thorin checks in.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Ficlet for this week’s [Hobbit group read](http://silmread.tumblr.com/) chapter, wherein Bilbo’s sick in Lake-town.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Of all the terrible times he’s had on this journey, this might not be the worst, but it’s close. He might’ve been starving in the forest, but at least he could breathe without coughing, and when he sat down to think, there weren’t dwarves banging around in the next room and drowning out all his thoughts. He’s never liked being sick, more so for the _uselessness_ of it all than the discomfort, but it’s much more depressing being sick away from home. At least there he had a proper hobbit-sized bed to snuggle into and could put a kettle on without worrying that rowdy companions would knock it over and burn down the house. Here, it’s all he can do to make it from one moment to the next.

Blessedly, not all the dwarves are home. Most of them, now richly dressed in borrowed finery and sporting new songs, have marched off to another banquet. They’re doubtlessly recounting old tales of the glory days, promising such splendor again, and forgetting about Bilbo entirely. But Glóin, Óin, and Balin stayed back to keep an eye on the house and their sick burglar, and they seem intent on throwing a party of their own. Even Balin’s gentle voice can be heard booming in laughter in and out of the conversation, and the battered walls of their Lake-town hut do nothing to keep it out. All Bilbo wants to do is _sleep_ , since they don’t seem to have anything around fit for hobbit consumption, and they can’t even let him do that in peace. Sometimes he wonders why he ever left his house for _dwarves_ , of all the obnoxious creatures.

He’s just given up smothering his ears with his pillow when he hears the front door burst open and the telltale roar of new voices. There’s a good deal of stomping and scuffling and general clattering, and especially boasts of food, which makes Bilbo’s poor stomach do a nasty roll. He tries to curl up tighter for it, crushing his knees against his chest under the heavy quilt, but then he can’t breathe with his face turned sideways against the pillow, and he has to roll onto his back again and put his legs down. It’s all a very untidy, unpleasant business.

He hopes they’ll tire themselves out on their own. He’s quite surprised when his own door tosses inwards, the little room thrown into the sudden light of the hall. Bilbo blinks against it and groans loudly, wanting to shout for the intruder to go away, but then an awful coughing fit takes over his voice. The door shuts again, only muffling the outside noise a fraction, and Thorin’s gruff voice tsks, “Poor thing.”

Pity isn’t something Bilbo attributed much to Thorin. He’s too surprised by it to wave it off. He coughs his way right until Thorin’s made it over to the bed, and then everything splutters out into a sneeze. Bilbo, unlike his Dwarven companions, at least has the good sense to bury the sneeze in his elbow. He twitches his nose most emphatically afterwards, turning to look at Thorin through red-rimmed eyes.

Thorin gives him a sad look, and Bilbo frowns, wishing, of all the wayward people in this little town, that it wasn’t _Thorin Oakenshield_ that had to come through his door. It’s quite bad enough to be feeling so terrible, but it’s much worse to know that he’s _looking_ so terrible in front of such a handsome person. They’ve both been through the mud on this journey, drenched in rain and cut and bruised with their hair full of unseemly tangles, but now Thorin’s gone and got himself some new robes and some proper rest, and he looks very much like the _king_ he is. And Bilbo’s a wreck with snot on his robes. 

To make matters worse, Thorin sets a wooden tray down across Bilbo’s lap, points and says, “I brought you some things since you couldn’t come. Crumpets, as I know how you like those, though I couldn’t bring any jam of course—much too messy to carry on these icy streets, you know. And some mead—can’t have you with only sugar in your stomach!”

Bilbo blinks. The little meal, while an absurd combination, is certainly more appetizing than the giant slab of unidentifiable bloody meat Óin offered him earlier. He looks at the crumpets, cooked a little larger than he likes but nicely orange on the top, and then looks back to Thorin. He had no idea Thorin had any sense of what he liked, much less an _accurate_ sense. Until now, he hadn’t thought himself on Thorin’s radar at all beyond burglaring capabilities. That surprise is even nicer than the prospect of real food.

Bilbo sucks in a breath, wanting his words to come out right for once in this dreadful cold, but his voice is still slurred when he says, “Thag you.”

Thorin gives a curt nod. His expression’s dropped into a more serious one, as is typical for him, and the sternness of it always makes Bilbo want to snap to attention. He tries to sit up straighter. Thorin tells him in that deep tone, “No, Master Baggins, thank _you_. Myself and my colleagues are getting all the credit now, but we could never have come this far without you. I want you to know that I haven’t forgotten you.”

There’s still a long way to go. But the sentiment sinks far into Bilbo’s bones, coupled with the look in Thorin’s eye, and it makes Bilbo nearly tremble. He can feel his cheeks heating, the blush rushing up to the surface of his skin, painting right across his nose and all the way up to his ears. 

Thorin gives a little start, a look of alarm coming over him, and he exclaims, “Oh dear, you’re burning right up again!” And before Bilbo can explain that he’s just _touched_ and Thorin’s gratitude _really does mean the world to him_ , Thorin insists, “You had better get some rest. Eat up and rest up, and I shall keep them all quiet out there as best I can. Get well again, Master Baggins.” He claps one strong hand on Bilbo’s shoulder that makes Bilbo half sway and half swoon, and then he leans in to press his lips to Bilbo’s super-heated forehead. Having Thorin’s broad chest loom over him, Thorin’s dark curls brushing over his cheeks, Thorin’s soft lips against his face, only makes Bilbo’s blush worse. For that second, Bilbo entirely forgets to breathe.

But then Thorin’s bustling off, through the door and already yelling for the others to keep it down, and Bilbo picks up a crumpet to nibble at while he wilts. No proper gentlehobbit would eat only mead and crumpets for supper, but in the complete absence of the Shire, he supposes dwarves aren’t really all that bad.


End file.
